The Ring of Death (34 page)

‘It's not my dog,' Gutterridge says. ‘It's
the club's
dog. Do whatever you bloody well want with it.'

‘But you didn't try to stop it?' Paniatowski asked.

‘No, I . . . I was the Master. I didn't want to seem weak in front of men who had so much respect for me.'

Paniatowski sighed. All the hints she had been given throughout the investigation had finally slotted into place, and though she didn't know
everything
yet – though there were a few pieces of information to collect before the picture was complete – the case was as good as over.

‘What happens now?' Langley asked.

‘When my inspector gets here, he'll take you down to police headquarters where you'll be formally charged, photographed and fingerprinted.'

‘Like a common criminal,' Langley said mournfully.

‘Not
like
one – you
are
a common criminal,' Paniatowski pointed out.

Langley's lip quivered. ‘Will I . . . will be let out on bail, once I've been charged?'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘Unless, of course, the magistrate refuses bail – and there's no reason why he should.'

‘But I
will
go to prison?'

‘Yes, you will.'

‘And what about when I
come out of
jail?'

‘
What
about it?'

‘No one who matters in this town – who matters
anywhere
– will want to have anything to do with me, will they?'

Paniatowski laughed. ‘Oh, I don't know about that,' she said. ‘You might be something of a hero with the dog-fighting set.'

Langley bowed his head. ‘My life is over,' he pronounced mournfully.

‘It doesn't have to be,' Paniatowski told him. ‘Not if you show a little backbone – not if you finally start acting like a
man
!'

‘Could I ask you a small favour?' Langley asked.

‘What is it?'

‘Before you actually arrest me, I'd like to spend a little time by myself, in my trophy room.'

‘In
where
?'

‘My trophy room. It's where I keep the heads of all the animals I've shot. I've got a very fine elk, and a stag with antlers that . . .'

‘I'm not interested in hearing about all the helpless creatures you have slaughtered,' Paniatowski said harshly. ‘But I
would
like to know where you keep the guns you used to carry out that slaughter.'

‘They're . . . they're safely locked in a cabinet.'

‘And is that cabinet in the trophy room?'

‘Yes, it is,' Langley admitted, looking down at the floor.

‘In that case, I can see no objection to you spending a few minutes with some of your victims,' Paniatowski told him.

The guard at the gatehouse of Ashton Court was still, in theory, on duty, but he gave Beresford's warrant card no more than the most cursory of glances before waving the inspector through.

It was amazing how quickly word got around, Beresford thought, as he drove up the driveway towards the house. It was like throwing a stone into a pond, and watching the circles spread out from it. Already – though Monika had probably not even arrested the merchant banker yet – his security staff knew that he was finished. And by the afternoon, when the circles had spread almost to the edges of the pond that was Whitebridge, there wouldn't be a single person in the town with a good word to say about Sir William Langley.

He parked in front of Ashley Court, and was shown into the study by the same uniformed maid who Paniatowski had barged past earlier. He had expected to find Langley there, but the only person occupying the vast, pretentious room was his boss, who was gazing out of the window with a preoccupied air about her.

‘Where's Langley?' he asked.

Paniatowski turned to face him. ‘Langley is elsewhere,' she said. Then, more crisply, she added, ‘What have you got to report, Colin?'

‘We've sealed off the farm, and the forensic boys are getting to work on it even as I speak,' Beresford said. ‘In addition, I've arranged a press conference for this evening, but I've warned the hacks that you may have to cancel it if . . .' He paused. ‘I'm sorry, boss, what did you mean by “elsewhere”?'

Paniatowski smiled, though it was not a happy expression. If anything, Beresford thought, he would have called it
tortured
.

‘The Lord of the Manor is in his trophy room,' she said.

The words exploded inside Beresford's head.

‘But good God, boss, there are probably guns in there,' he said.

‘There
are
guns in there,' Paniatowski replied calmly.

‘And don't you think there's a danger he might . . .'

‘Blow his own head off?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘That course of action must certainly have an appeal for him. With that last final gesture, he'd confirm – at least to himself – that he really is an English gentleman.'

‘Then how could you . . . what ever possessed you to . . .?'

‘Let's go and see how he's getting on, shall we?' Paniatowski suggested.

The doors to the gun case in the trophy room had been thrown wide open, and several expensive customized shotguns were there for the taking by anyone who cared to reach into the cabinet. But Sir William Langley couldn't take advantage of the opportunity, for though he could almost touch the guns with the fingertips of his left hand, his right wrist was firmly manacled to one of the substantial heating pipes.

It had been a fine calculation on Paniatowski's part, Beresford thought. There was no way that Langley could actually get his hands on one of the guns, but she had tethered him close enough for him to still live in the desperate hope that – with a little more effort – he just
might
.

Langley noticed them looking at him from the doorway.

‘So you've brought your underling to observe me in my humiliation, have you, Chief Inspector?' he asked angrily.

‘That's right,' Paniatowski replied, in a cheery voice. ‘I thought he could use a good laugh.' She turned to Beresford. ‘Seen enough, Colin?'

‘More than enough,' Beresford said, sounding troubled.

They walked back down along the corridor in uneasy silence, and it was not until they were back in Langley's study that Beresford said, ‘Why did you do that, boss?'

‘You're supposed to be a detective,' Paniatowski replied, in a tone he couldn't quite pin down. ‘
You
work it out.'

‘You wanted to make him suffer?'

‘Full marks – go to the top of the class.'

There had been a frown on Beresford's face since he'd first seen what she'd done to Langley, and now that frown deepened even further.

‘This isn't like you, boss,' he said. ‘It isn't like you at all.'

‘Isn't it?' Paniatowski demanded – and now he had her tone pegged as
anger
, a deep, boiling anger he'd never seen in her before. ‘Why
shouldn't
I want him to suffer, after what he's done? Why shouldn't he pay for standing by while poor dumb suffering animals were ripped to shreds? But that's
nothing
compared to what
else
he's done. Through his vanity and his insecurity, a
good
man has been destroyed – and there can never be
enough
punishment for that!'

‘A good man?' Beresford repeated, mystified. ‘Who are you talking about?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, who the hell do you
think
I'm talking about?' Paniatowski countered.

TWENTY-EIGHT

P
aniatowski found Cousins in her office, sitting in Beresford's chair.

‘Sorry to have come in here without asking your permission first, ma'am,' the sergeant said.

‘That's all right, Paul,' Paniatowski said, seating herself down opposite him.

‘I wouldn't normally have done it,' the sergeant continued, ‘but when I heard that you'd been out to Moors' Edge Farm I suddenly felt so
tired
, and I knew I had to find a place where I could be on my own for a while.'

‘I understand.'

Cousins reached into his wallet, took out a photograph, and slid it across the desk to Paniatowski.

‘I'd like you to take a look at that,' he said.

The picture had been taken in a garden, and in the background Paniatowski could see honeysuckle climbing a trestle. The two people in the shot were sitting down on plastic chairs. The woman was smiling at the camera, but even though she was making a great effort to hide the fact that she was in pain, she was not being entirely successful. The man was smiling too, but his eyes, filled with concern, were fixed not on the camera but on the woman. A ginger cat sat on the woman's knee, and a dog – a Staffordshire bull terrier – was curled up contentedly at her feet.

‘That's us,' Cousins said. ‘That's the family.'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘I guessed as much.'

‘We always thought Mary would be the first to go. But she wasn't. A few weeks before she died, Ginger was run over in the street. It was nobody's fault but his own – he was always a reckless bugger – but it hit Mary hard. She said there seemed to be a curse on the family.' Cousins paused. ‘You have to laugh, don't you, ma'am? There she was, dying of cancer herself, and the first time she mentions a curse is when the bloody cat gets killed!'

‘It must have been awful for her,' Paniatowski said, sympathetically.

‘But she was right – as usual,' Cousins continued. ‘We
were
cursed.' He paused again, as if this was all very difficult for him. ‘Mary had always been close to Davie, but she grew even closer to him after Ginger was killed.' He laughed. ‘Davie! Funny bloody name to give a powerful animal like a pit-bull terrier, isn't it?'

‘I think it's a nice name,' Paniatowski told him.

‘But my Mary was most insistent that was what we call him. She said he'd got “Davie” written all over him. That was the thing about her. She had her own way of looking at everything and everybody, and she saw qualities in them which other people didn't. She certainly saw qualities in me I never knew I had, but because
she'd
seen them, I believe I actually did start to develop them. Does that make any sense at all?'

‘It makes a lot of sense.'

‘When she first got ill, I did everything I could to help her. I took medical books out of the library, to see if I could find a cure that her doctor had somehow missed. But of course there wasn't one. I got her to take some of those “alternative” medicines, but they either had no effect at all, or they made her feel sick. I hadn't prayed for years, but I prayed then – down on my knees until it hurt so much that I could hardly stand up again. None of it did any good. I failed her.'

‘You didn't fail her,' Paniatowski said softly. ‘You loved her and you cared for her right to the end – and that's all anybody can ask.'

‘She was worried about what would happen to Davie after she'd gone,' Cousins said. ‘She'd had him from a pup, you see. She loved him with all her heart, and one of the last things she did before she died was to make me promise I'd look after him.'

‘But you couldn't cope,' Paniatowski said. ‘You were having a mental breakdown, so you were forced to give him to your old friend Len Gutterridge to look after.'

‘You know about that, do you?'

‘Yes. His widow confirmed it, not half an hour ago. And I also know that Gutterridge used to go to Moors' Edge Farm on Thursday nights.'

‘If Len had thought there'd be a possibility I'd be coming out of the nut house soon, Davie would have been quite safe,' Cousins said sadly. ‘But he believed I'd be in there for the duration, so he took the dog to the fight. He sold our Davie – and then he stood there and watched him being ripped to shreds.'

‘How did you find out what had actually gone on?' Paniatowski asked.

Cousins shrugged. ‘It wasn't difficult. The first time I spoke to Len after I'd been released, he seemed very nervous. When he told me that Davie had died of distemper, I knew he was lying, so I checked with all the vets in Whitebridge, and none of them had treated my dog. You can fill in the rest for yourself, can't you, ma'am.'

‘I think so. You started watching him closely, and one night you followed him out to Moors' Edge Farm?'